


Do You See What I See?

by heyjupiter



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Christmas, F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-10
Updated: 2012-12-10
Packaged: 2017-11-20 19:09:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/588683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyjupiter/pseuds/heyjupiter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mystique, Angel, and Emma infiltrate a political fundraiser Christmas gala, but they soon discover that they're not the only party crashers. Still, they gather some useful data--and plenty of free champagne.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do You See What I See?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [garrideb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/garrideb/gifts).



> Written for garrideb's prompt _The ladies of the brotherhood infiltrate an extravagant holiday party for important reasons. Emma could hide as an ice sculpture! Angel could perch on top of a Christmas tree! Raven could do anything! Any of the guys (especially Charles and Erik) are welcome, but not necessary._
> 
> Hope you like it! Happy holidays!
> 
> Thanks to my lovely beta, [pocky_slash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocky_slash/pseuds/pocky_slash)!

"Well, I think it could be fun," Mystique said. She was lounging on a couch in the living room of the Brotherhood safehouse they were currently occupying, ostensibly reading yesterday's New York Times but being frequently distracted by Angel's complaints about their upcoming assignment.

"Of course _you_ do," Angel said, looking up from the manicure she was giving herself. "You're perfect for this kind of undercover gig. Not me."

"Relax, Emma's coming with us. Nobody will recognize any of us. And it sounds like it'll be a pretty groovy party," Mystique said, throwing the newspaper to the floor and flipping through the file folder Magneto had given her earlier. "Look, some of these guys we're supposed to talk to are kinda cute."

Angel rolled her eyes. "It's a fundraiser for a Republican senator from Texas. I'm pretty sure 'groovy' isn't the right word to describe it. And none of those guys are cute."

"Well, I bet they'll have really good food."

"And liquor," Emma added. She pursed her lips. "They had _better_ have decent liquor."

"And we might find some useful information," Mystique said. "You know, help the cause." Angel still looked skeptical, and Mystique added, "Plus, did you see the dress I picked out for you? It's really pretty." Since they were all technically wanted by the FBI, the CIA, and pretty much every government organization, Mystique tended to do the shopping and household errands for everyone. Except Emma, who possibly owned her own boutique somewhere.

"Anyway, Angel, it's a Christmas party. You should be in your element," Emma said. Mystique still hadn't quite figured out how to tell when Emma was joking. She thought maybe Emma was never joking, or else she was always joking.

"That's original," Angel muttered.

"Yeah!" Mystique said. "You could sit on top of the tree. And Emma, _you_ could pretend to be an ice sculpture!"

Emma laughed. "Of course. I'm certain none of the partygoers will know the difference between ice and diamonds, Mystique. Why don't _you_ pose as an ice sculpture?"

"Well, I'd hate to melt halfway through the party."

"Of course," Emma said. "Well, we'll leave at 5 o'clock, so you'd best be ready by then."

"Of course," Mystique said, mimicking Emma's precise tone.

Emma arched an eyebrow and turned on her heel without another word. Mystique waited a beat and said, "All right, let's go get ready."

"Right, we want to make sure we're dressed to impress," Angel said.

"I think we're going less for 'impress' and more for 'blend in,'" Mystique said.

"Shouldn't be a problem for _you_ ," Angel said.

"Or you! It'll just take you a little longer," Mystique said, rippling her body into the form of a pretty blonde in a silver evening gown as she walked upstairs.

"Show off. Now, where's my dress?"

Mystique opened her closet. It contained one long wool coat, one black evening gown, and a dozen empty hangers.

Angel pouted. "You know red is my favorite color."

"Well, we're trying to blend in. And if you put on a red dress you'd be _too_ hot. The senators would be swarming all over you."

"They'd tell me anything I wanted to know," Angel said.

"Or they might suddenly recall seeing your face on a Wanted poster. Wear the black dress. You'll still be gorgeous, but just a little less eye-catching."

"Even if they recognized me it's not like some dumb humans could do anything about it. What are they gonna do, arrest us?"

"Or just shoot us. Just put on the dress, Jesus."

"If anything, I'm Gabriel, not Jesus," Angel said primly. Mystique rolled her eyes and Angel added, "The Christmas angel jokes are only okay if _I_ make them." She took the dress over to her own room.

Mystique turned on the radio and heard "Do You Hear What I Hear." The song had been a hugely popular Christmas hit since it came out last year, and Mystique hadn't been able to escape it whenever she went out shopping the last month. She hummed and experimented with different hair colors and styles in front of the mirror. The radio moved on to "Santa Bring My Baby Back (To Me)", and Mystique settled on a medium blonde updo and knocked on Angel's door.

"Are you decent?" It had taken Mystique some time to adjust to how long it took women to get dressed when they actually had to put on clothes.

"Better than decent," Angel said. The door swung open and Mystique took in the sight of Angel in heels and a black evening gown.

"Definitely better than decent," Mystique said, grinning. "Want me to help you put your hair up?"

"You think up?"

"For a party like this? Definitely," Mystique replied, thinking back to the boring, elaborate Christmas galas she'd attended as a member of the Xavier family. Rich people showing off their fancy dresses and fancy houses while she and Charles swiped champagne and slipped away to little side parlors to avoid spending time with other rich kids, who were almost universally terrible. She swept aside those memories and focused on Angel's long, dark hair. She worked efficiently, pinning and spraying it into shape. Finally she stopped and stood next to Angel, staring at their reflection in the mirror. "That's good, right?"

"Classy as hell, Mystique. Those assholes aren't gonna know what hit 'em." Angel completed her look with a string of pearls and a black silk wrap that masked her tattoos, and the two women went downstairs to wait for Emma, who was always precisely on time for things. Sometimes Mystique suspected that Emma must spend a lot of time lurking around corners, just so no one would ever think she arrived anywhere early. But God forbid anyone ever made Emma Frost wait for anything. At exactly 5 o'clock, Emma sashayed into the room, gave Angel and Mystique a once-over, and nodded, apparently satisfied.

"Let's go," she said. "Riptide will drive. He should already be in the garage."

It took them half an hour to get from their safehouse to the Capital Hilton, where their chauffeur dropped them off and the concierge had a bellboy escort them to the Presidential Ballroom. Mystique had experienced this kind of fuss before--tangentially, of course, since people were more worried about impressing the Xavier heir than they were about his odd little sister, but still, she'd had bellhops tip their hats to her before. She knew it was different for Angel, though her friend kept a cool facade. As for Emma, Mystique was pretty sure she could buy out the whole hotel if she wanted to, and the bellhop could probably sense it. Or maybe he just had a thing for blondes.

The ballroom was lavishly, yet tastefully decorated in muted tones of red and gold. A string quartet was in the corner playing arrangements of Christmas carols. Mystique hated it. When she and Charles had lived in Oxford, they'd had a little tree decked out in every color of the rainbow, the opposite of the austere, classy decor favored by the Xaviers' interior decorator. The Brotherhood's safehouse had no indication at all that it was December, which Mystique hadn't minded. It made it easier not to think of--God, of course Charles was here. Why wouldn't he be here, sipping champagne and in earnest discussion with a prim brunette woman who couldn't stop sneaking glances at his wheelchair.

She looked at Emma. "Did you know he was going to be here?"

"Do you think I would have come, if I'd known?" Emma said. She actually sounded a bit terse.

"Can you shield us?" Angel asked.

"I'll try." Mystique knew Charles was a stronger telepath than Emma, but Emma's powers were nothing to sneeze at.

"Maybe we should just leave now. Mag--you know, people would understand," Angel said, unconvinced by Emma's answer.

"No way, we have a--we have a party to attend. And I'm sure it's a perfectly safe party," Mystique said. "It's probably just a coincidence. Charles gets invited to all kinds of rich people parties. Oh, look, champagne!" She helped herself to a flute from a passing waiter.

"I'll keep an eye on things," Emma said, and Mystique felt a light touch in her mind. "But let's try to make some new friends."

Mystique could tell Angel was still unhappy--she'd always been a little wary of Charles--but the three women fanned out into the party. Mystique was sure that if there was any useful information to be found, Emma would be the one to find it, but she still dutifully chatted up someone, who turned out to work for Lucky Strike cigarettes. She was trapped for a long time, listening to him earnestly defend cigarettes against attacks by "those anti-smoking quacks," before she could finally slip away and try to talk to someone with more political capital. She scanned the room and noticed another familiar face--Moira MacTaggart, CIA agent, former ally, and human--who was staring at Charles with a confused look on her face. Mystique sent a little mental message to Emma, who thought back, _What a terribly popular party this is turning out to be. But don't worry about_ her _, darling. She doesn't remember a thing_.

Mystique shrugged and replied, _If you say so._ She wasn't too worried about Moira, but she wondered if there were other undercover agents at the party. Then she wondered if there were any actual guests at the party, or if everyone there was simply spying on each other. The thought made her smile. She assumed any other spies at the party would make note of her unexplained happiness and decided to find a target for her smile, settling on a young-ish, handsome-ish man, who turned out to be an aide for the senator. She batted her eyelashes and cooed over his important job, then tried to get an idea of what kind of trips such a _powerful_ man might get to go on with his boss.

Her new friend puffed up and told her, in a very confidential tone, "I'll probably get to go on a factfinding trip out west, to report back to the committee. He needs to send someone trustworthy."

"Ooh, I've always wanted to go to California! I bet it's a lot nicer there than here, this time of year."

"I didn't say California," he laughed. "But Vegas is more fun, anyway."

"Oh, I'm sure it will be," Mystique said, smiling and thinking. The Committee on Government Operations was sending a factfinding group out to Las Vegas. The Brotherhood knew that they were the committee that was primarily responsible for looking into the possibility of "humans with augmented abilities." It seemed that Charles had erased most memories and evidence of mutantkind's involvement with the Cuban Missile Crisis, but he couldn't prevent humanity from knowing about mutants. The Brotherhood needed to know what the government knew, so it could protect mutants. If they were investigating in Las Vegas, it meant they were on the trail of the Hellfire Club. Old news, but still, following that trail might eventually lead them somewhere useful. Mystique giggled and flirted and did her absolute best to get more information out of the man, but he either grew suspicious or decided that she wasn't his type, and before long he excused himself to talk to a colleague. As Raven, she'd never been much for flirting--always afraid that someone would uncover her secret, afraid to get too close to anyone. As Mystique, she'd have to get over that.

She took a canape from a passing waiter and surveyed the room. Emma was sitting next to a guy who had to be at least 70. He looked delighted, and Mystique wondered what the guy thought Emma was doing. She figured she was probably better off not knowing. She didn't see Angel anywhere, and then it happened. She accidentally made eye contact with Charles. She waited to see if he would react, if he would recognize her. The face she wore now was different than the one she'd used as Raven. He'd always promised never to read her mind, but if he didn't know who she was, would he hesitate?

Mystique knew the smart thing to do would be to turn around and immediately strike up a conversation with someone else. But part of her was still Raven, and it was Christmas, and he was her brother, so she walked over and sat next to him.

"Hello, love," he said, and she fought to keep a level face. Did he recognize her, or was he flirting with her?

She stuck out her hand and said, "I'm Grace."

"Grace. That's a lovely name, for a lovely woman. I'm Charles Xavier."

Mystique studied Charles's face. He looked older than he had last year, and there was sadness in his eyes. But she didn't see any flicker of recognition in his face. "Nice to meet you, Charles. So tell me, what do you do?"

"Oh, I'm a schoolteacher," he said. They chatted amiably for a few minutes. She kept her gaze on his face. He told her bland half-truths about teaching at a private school, she told him interesting lies about being a secretary for a senator.

Then he looked her in the eye and said, "Merry Christmas, _Grace_. Give my best to Erik, will you?"

"Merry Christmas, Charles. I don't know anyone named Erik, but I'm sure whoever he is, he'd rather hear a message from you than from a messenger," Mystique said, raising her chin. "But I think Moira MacTaggart would appreciate it if you gave your best to her."

Charles's blue eyes looked ridiculously sad, and he said, "I'm afraid that's impossible."

Raven felt sad for her brother's pain; Mystique felt concerned for the safety of her memories. Lightly, she said, "That's a pity. She's a lovely woman. That red hair... a mutation to be proud of, wouldn't you say?" Then she walked away before he could respond, her cheeks burning at the memory the way her brother had made her feel about her skin. She walked right out of the ballroom.

She found Angel sitting at one of the hotel bars, smoking a cigarette and rolling her eyes at a drunk man who was trying to pick her up. Her wrap had slipped down her back, revealing her beautiful skin markings.

Mystique sat down on her other side and said, "This seat taken?"

Angel looked over and a guilty look briefly flashed in her eyes. "I was gonna go back in there in a second, I just..."

"Yeah. I know," Mystique said.

"I hate the way they look at me."

"At us," Mystique said with a half-smile. She reached over and adjusted Angel's wrap for her, briefly tracing part of a wing pattern with her thumb. They were so beautiful, Mystique hated to cover them, but they were trying to fly under the radar. So to speak.

Angel gave a nod of thanks and said, "I wish we could..."

"One day we will."

They sat for a moment. The radio in the bar started playing Bing Crosby's version of "Do You Hear What I Hear?" and Mystique hummed along in spite of herself. She remembered reading in the paper that it had been written in response to the Cuban Missile Crisis, a Christian plea for peace in the face of nuclear holocaust. Yet it hadn't been God who had saved them from annihilation--it had been Charles who had saved the humans. But it had been Magneto who saved her.

Angel took a long drag on her cigarette and carefully studied Mystique's face. She said, "You wanna get out of here?"

Mystique looked over her shoulder back toward the ballroom, then back at Angel. "Absolutely."

Angel left a tip on the bar and took Mystique by the elbow. "Emma will find us if she needs us."

"She always does," Mystique said.

As they walked away, Bing Crosby sang, "Listen to what I say, pray for peace, people everywhere." Perhaps some people were content just to pray for peace, but she and Angel were fighting for a world where they could attend a Christmas party safely wearing their own skins. When that day arrived, they'd have to write some new songs.

**Author's Note:**

> I only recently learned that [Do You Hear What I Hear?](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Do_You_Hear_What_I_Hear) was written in response to the Cuban Missile Crisis. Is that common knowledge? I kind of assumed it had been around a lot longer than that.


End file.
